I would say T.G.I.F., but it's the start of a four day weekend thanks to Mr. Columbus. Peter had a check-up today for his cast, an arm that's been redone in patriotic stripes to replace Ms. Argentina's sloppy work. Now if I can just figure out how to make the cast feel the same as "room temperature" inside, then wearing it for two more weeks would be much more tolerable.

The children brought to my attention the harmful chain of events between four, raucous siblings that have led us to the E.R. in recent years. Without using names, it goes something like this: Xbroke Y's nose; Y broke X's finger; Y broke P's elbow. Z is unscathed. Just for the record, Y is my oldest. Peter said it's his turn to retaliate and break someone's something. "I know! I'll break someone's heart," he said seriously with that infectious grin. At least that won't send us to the E.R.

It's been a semi-rough week. That's how I'd categorize any week where a teacher calls or a yellow discipline slip comes home in his daily folder. I had both. This week the problems occurred during his "specials" a.k.a. P.E. and music. His frustration, and subsequent tears, during P.E. were my fault for forgetting to send in a doctor's note. Sitting quietly as an observer is hardly ideal for a boy in constant motion. Then here's what his music teacher noted on his discipline referral:Peter has had a terrible attitude the past couple of music classes and has flat out refused to do his activities. He spent most of the class telling everyone that he hates school, hates music, and hates the activity. Maybe if she'd been playing Usher then he might've been more inclined to participate and raise the roof as he's known to do.

And, lastly, the pictures I'd been so anxious to receive came home today. There was the envelope with the large glossy window, folded in half in the bottom of his backpack. Surely, there has to be a better way to package them.

I can't help his awkward, unnatural smile, but the rounded haircut is horrible! I haven't decided whether to gamble with retakes.

So the adventures with 'Mr. P' continue, along with his anxieties about how much time I have left on earth. (Side note: Mr. P is a nickname from his grandmother.) There's often that point in childhood when we all realize that our time with our parents will one day come to an end. Peter's realized that fact of life. By telling him that Mommy should have fifty more years to live just isn't a consolation to that unthinkable fear of carrying on alone. Just as long as he doesn't break anyone's heart, he should have siblings around to take over when I'm gone.

Like many of you, my thoughts are with the family in New York tonight still searching for their lost son. May he find his way to safety and back to his familiar surroundings so that his parent's nightmare may end.

Ahhhh! That’s me slowly exhaling, deliberately and restoratively, after an unusually busy weekend. First, there was the elementary school carnival, and then an afternoon of middle school football with Homecoming festivities on Saturday. Without sounding like a scrooge, I’ve never understood Homecoming at any school other than college. Making it through four years of high school was punishment enough. Why return? It’s no surprise that I never attended those dances that were more a formality than real tradition. (Side note: I only went to prom for the after party. Wrist corsages and formal gowns aren’t my thing. Neither are weddings.) I’m generally not receptive to anything that forces people to go through the motions for no apparent reason. Like graduation ceremonies from 5th grade? Was it really an optional achievement? I guess that’s why I’m always looking deeper into life and asking questions with no definitive answers. The answers to questions that nobody can explain. The explanations that boil down to, “Just because. That’s why.” Maybe I need to lighten up and stop asking questions. To just live free and stop finding fault with the status quo. I just don’t know how to be that way.

Homecoming celebrations in middle school are the type of formality that provokes those questions. It’s nothing more than a chance for the cheerleaders to dote on the football players by decorating their mailboxes with candy and posters. On game day the cheerleaders are paired up with the players and walk across the field as their names are announced on the loud speaker. Here's my son on the right.

I must admit that I hold some lingering prejudices against cheerleaders. I was never one and never had the desire to be one either. Instead, I played basketball until my headstrong attitude clashed with the parental politics of the game. Instead of adopting the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” philosophy, I quit playing my freshman year. My view towards cheerleaders has changed somewhat over the years because the “sport” seems to have incorporated more gymnastic ability. I respect the athleticism required to do the flips, pyramids, and aerial stunts. However, I never want my daughters to join the squad. Gymnastics is fine. Cheering on the boys is a step back in time.

I hope I don’t impede my daughters’ aspirations who only show a slight interest in cheering for now. They're ages 9 and 11. I have a feeling that I might reach that impasse where my daughters' question my own beliefs. Here’s what I’d like to tell them.

Dear Daughters,Follow your dreams. Not from the sidelines as a supporting player or as eye candy for boys that don’t make or break your self-worth. Boys that don’t need to be built up because most of them only want what you can do for them. Don't play the part that you're too young to understand. Test your physical limits beyond synchronized claps and dance moves that simulate sex more than rhythm. Radiate from the inside and not because your hair bow is picking up signals for outer space. Cast yourself as the lead in your life. You deserve the spotlight. Love, Mom

And, Mr. NFL cameraman, I'd like to tell you that it's okay to film the cheerleaders, but pan away before the sideshow becomes more about your own excitement than merely capturing the SIGHTS and sounds of the game. I've spoken (err written) my peace. Ahhhh!

My daughter came home hysterical last spring because another girl said this to her while they sat on the bus mulling over Santa's existence. I didn't understand why she was so upset and had trouble getting into the mind of an 8-year-old so I could make her feel better. I still can't figure it out. Somehow she lost all faith in herself by just this one statement.

Positive self-esteem isn't innate, but a trait that has to be nourished. Her breakdown taught me that I have more work to do. She needs to toughen up and stifle those tears. But she's emotional like me. Who knows, maybe she'll have a career in Hollywood?

I tend to be more of an observer than referee when children quarrel. Too often parents have a knee-jerk reaction. They intervene when children are learning to hold their own, discovering themselves, and building their character. I'm not referring to bullying where I'd intervene without hesitating, but normal interactions with peers and siblings that are a part of growing up. And some disagreements just might end in tears. But that's okay. Nobody said growing up was easy.

UPDATE 8/9/13: Yesterday I told my daughter that even though she was being mean, I knew she had a kind heart. What I thought would evoke a smile ended in tears. She was upset and presumed I thought she was a "goody goody." I guess that's her conscience at work. I thought I understood everything about the highs and lows of the female psyche. It's true about payback. Sorry Mom.